


The Assassination of Mr. Harker

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1625843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by jones and ashes</p><p>The Aurora's crew attempts to capture a mysterious assassin, and Fogg and Verne fall down a rabbit hole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assassination of Mr. Harker

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to pollyrepeat, without whom this story would not have been written. Yay!
> 
> Written for Stellar Meadow

 

 

Phileas Fogg does not usually sleep soundly, and when he does, it's usually interrupted. The knock on his door tonight is sharp and sure, obviously Rebecca. Passepartout's knocks are always accompanied by a hesitant "...Master?" and an apology, even if it's for something really important, like the Aurora going nose-first into the Thames, or vampires. Verne has no reason to enter Phileas' room, so he is not even an option.

"Yes?" Phileas says, bargaining for a few more seconds to claw his way out of the drowsy haze of sleep. The curtains of his room are still drawn, but they may as well not have been; the moon is faint and new tonight.

"We are approximately 10 minutes from London, Phileas. Passepartout is already starting the descent." It is indeed Rebecca, sounding about as awake and alert as Phileas would like to be. Nearly there, though, and with waking comes a growing sense of indignation. Why the devil are they going to London? And it is a most ungodly hour, no doubt.

"Why the devil are we going to London?"

Rebecca laughs at him from behind the door, which is incredibly unfair. "I've received an assignment from Chatsworth," she says, which immediately sets his blood boiling. And he's not even out of bed, yet. Intolerable.

He clears his throat and manages to sound halfway to human. "And why wasn't I informed of this until now? And for that matter, what sort of assignment has he put you on this time?"

There's silence from the other side of the door for a moment, and then he hears a whisper of clothes, as though she's shrugging. Sounding cheerful, she says, "I suppose it slipped my mind! And as per your second question, the usual - dark alleys, assassinations, high-powered political figures -"

"Rebecca!" He manages to free himself from the bedclothes and sling a robe over his shoulders, then flings open the door. Rebecca is quirking an eyebrow at him in the warm glow of the Aurora's lit hallway and looking ridiculously pleased with herself.

"Four assassinations in seven months, Phileas," she tells him. "Now, doesn't that sound exciting?"

"It sounds," Phileas grates out, "abominable. Please send Passepartout my way once we've safely landed."

"Any minute now." Rebecca smiles widely at him, with all of her teeth. She takes shameless advantage of him. He takes in her deep red dress - the one that he knows conceals any number of small, deadly weapons and can be quickly ripped away to reveal a no-nonesense, leather suit - and the sparkling pins in her hair. They're very sharp. She's ready for mayhem. Phileas is just about ready for murder. "I'll leave you to get dressed, then," she says. "Don't take too long, Phileas."

He doesn't slam the door in his cousin's face, but it's a near thing.

Phileas spends fifteen happy minutes chastising Passepartout for his part in Rebecca's little secret and emerges feeling much refreshed for a spot of tea and and a pow-wow in the Aurora's sitting room. For a moment, he's concerned that he hasn't entirely woken up when he spots Verne lounging in a chair with some sort of ridiculous contraption strapped to his head, like a small telescope has attached itself, parasite-like, to his eye. "What," he says in what he feels is a fairly even tone of voice, "in God's name is that?" It is far, far too early for this sort of thing. He fully intends to have a discussion with Rebecca once he's feeling more awake.

"It is being an ocular device," Passepartout announces from behind him, bustling in with the coffee. "I am making it all through the nights from Master Jules' designings."

"And what is it meant to do?" Phileas inquires drily, settling down into a chair.

There is a brief, embarrassed silence. "Well," says Verne at last, peering at Phileas, "we're working on that. So far it has a tendency to induce headaches." He cranks experimentally at a handle on the side and the telescope extends a little further. "And Passepartout - I keep catching ... glimpses of stuff. Things fluttering out of the corner of my eye."

"Hmmm," Passepartout says, noncommitally, and looks as though he's about to add something else when Rebecca sweeps in.

"Lovely morning, wouldn't you say?" She accepts a cup of tea from Passepartout, spares only a brief double-take for Verne's ocular device, and sets a leather-wrapped sheaf of papers on Phileas' knee. "The circumstances of these deaths are a bit unusual, so I'd like to have the Aurora's air support."

Passepartout departs for the kitchen as Verne hastily fumbles the ocular device from his head. "Unusual?"

"Mmmm, rooms locked from the inside, men capable of leaping walls in a single bound, that sort of thing. I've got a meeting with Chatsworth in an hour or so to discuss the parameters further, and I will, of course, let you know more once I do. You may look over the papers, if you like. Passepartout's already called a carriage for me, so I must be off." Rebecca puts a hand on Phileas' shoulder. "I am sorry for keeping you in the dark. You're - less than reasonable, this time of year."

She moves out the door, and Phileas transfers a bleak gaze to Verne, who looks extremely uncomfortable at having witnessed the brief but powerful Clash of the Foggs. "Heh heh," he says weakly. "Um - would you like to try the ocular device?"

It is not a lovely morning. It is, in fact, barely morning at all, and Phileas feels deeply, deeply tired. He enunciates very clearly. "I am going back to bed," he says. "Passepartout is to wake me when Rebecca returns."

***

Jules has been nervous ever since Rebecca had flung herself into the chair next to him yesterday afternoon, winked, and said in a conspiratorial tone, "I've got a mission in London, but Phil's going to be awfully grumpy and make life miserable until he inevitably gives in, so I think we should just skip the middle part and keep this our little secret until we arrive." Jules is a terrible, terrible liar, and Phileas Fogg has an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods and is also, incidentally, slightly terrifying.

Jules is, therefore, vastly relieved when the brief secret ends and Rebecca takes herself off to let her cousin know what she's done. Fogg practically stumbles out of his room looking quite wretched indeed - and Jules has not only lived with penniless students but been one himself, so that's saying something - and is a complete bear for the duration of his brief time topside before he submerges back into the depths of his quarters, clutching the leather-bound papers. Jules wishes Rebecca a safe trip even though it's really not a trip, but he's not quite in the habit of calling them missions yet. Only spies wish other spies good missions. Writers wishing spies good missions sounds altogether too strange.

Once he's alone again, Jules carefully sets the ocular device down on the end table, making sure not to bend the second spring running along the side again. It took hours to realign the last time.

"I think," he says, mostly to himself, "it's time to go back to the drawings." He does this for a solid quarter hour, until Passepartout strolls back into the room and offers to make tea. Jules puts down his pencil and devotes a slightly embarrassing amount of time deciding whether he wants ocular device modifications, or Earl Grey.

"Ah," says Passepartout after a moment, tapping a smudged rough sketch with a finger and simultaneously tipping the balance in favour of science and the betterment of mankind. "This is nearer to the first draft, yes?"

The morning progresses quickly after that, but his invention's design most unfortunately does not. Before Jules has even scrapped the 7th draft, Fogg returns to the sitting room. He announces that it's about time for brunch, and nearly steps on at least three different drawings that must have accidentally been pushed onto the floor. The man is so oblivious sometimes.

Passepartout excuses himself to cook some eggs (devilled), and Jules is left in an enclosed space alone with Phileas Fogg and an unfinished invention. He is suddenly very conscious of how much of a mess he's made in Fogg's sitting room.

"Do you have a private room, Verne?" Fogg wonders, his voice flat. He scoops up the newspaper carefully laid out for him within arm's length of his chair. It occurs to Jules that they are currently several hundred feet above London and at some point in the wee hours of the morning, Passepartout must have somehow procured today's newspaper.

"Yes," says Jules. He would have to be daft not to know where this was going, because it also occurs to Jules that Fogg is always and permanently out of sorts with the world, and Jules in particular.

"Oh," Fogg continues, his face now hidden behind the paper, "I wouldn't have guessed that you did, what with the..." He motions to the designs.

"Sorry," Jules grumbles. Passepartout chooses this moment to sing out that the Aurora is landing to pick up Miss Rebecca. The paper rattles a little, but other than that Fogg doesn't move.

Rebecca is aboard almost before the Aurora is safely grounded, and she erupts into the sitting room in a whirlwind of brightly coloured skirts and red curls. "This is even better than I thought," she informs them, grinning. "There was talk in Sir Jonathan's waiting room that the assassin is actually of other-wordly origins." She wiggles her fingers in the air next to her head and makes an "Ooooh" noise, as though she's imitating a sickly sort of spirit. "We'll set up a stake-up tonight," she tells the paper. "We have it on very good intelligence that Sir Edmund Harker is the next target."

The paper emanates an air of indifference, so Jules takes it upon himself to show some interest. "Other-worldly in what way? Like the Starman? Or like the vampires?"

"I'm not altogether certain," Rebecca admits, and a brief shadow of concern flashes over her face and is gone again. "Which is why I should like the Aurora to be on hand. We're to visit Sir Harker at his house in London this afternoon, under the pretenses of discussing horse-breeding, which I'm informed is a topic very near and dear to the gentleman's heart. We can scout out the house and outlying grounds then."

***

Phileas is very good at playing the part of the idiotic fop, but today's outing is beginning to grate on his nerves. Sir Harker is an absolute bore, and although he was informed of the Foggs' true purpose at his house today, he insisted on discussing the merits of one horse over the other at absolutely nauseating lengths. Apparently, Phileas thinks dispassionately, he is more concerned with his horses than a threat to his life. He would get along well with Verne in that respect.

It's much too warm in the trophy room Phileas is cruelly cornered in at present, and his overcoat is starting to become uncomfortable. Most of the silver won in here, Harker tells him, is the work of his prized stallion. His prized stallion is a dozen sorts of wonderful, and Phileas wishes the attempts on Harker's life would hurry along.

Harker briefly moves away from equestrian subject matter to casually mention the size of his grounds and Phileas spots his opportunity. His request for a tour of the admittedly lovely London yard goes over well. Despite the uncomfortable temperature in the house, the air outside it is rather refreshing. Rebecca waves to him from the second-story balcony, where Mrs. Harker is giving her a tour of the house. At this point, Phileas would rather be back in his invaded sitting room, ignoring Verne. Rebecca is a force of nature, and when she gets in a mood he often feels as though they're all being helplessly pulled along in her wake.

At last, at last, the reconnaisance is finished, and over a light supper in the Aurora, Rebecca pulls out a sketched map of Harker's residence and assigns spots. "I will, of course, be in the house - possibly on the balcony. Passepartout, you shall keep to the air; be prepared to come immediately at my signal. Jules, Phileas, there's a lovely tree in the garden with a magnicent view of the balcony and the garden wall."

***

Jules hasn't climbed a tree for a number of years, and is not aided by the bag slung over his shoulder that insists on getting in his way. It contains the ocular device, which he feels very fond of at the moment and fully intends to tinker with during the interminable hours of the watch. Fogg, already just a rustle in the darkness of the tree above, says something like, "Get on with it, Verne," and so Jules grits his teeth and attempts to clamber upward. By the time he attains a respectably high branch, Fogg is lounging easily against the trunk as though the tree were simply an extension of his sitting room.

Jules squirms around a bit on his branch, attempting to find a comfortable position, then swings his bag into his lap and carefully lifts out the ocular device. It needs, he thinks, a more snappy name than "ocular device."

A voice drifts out of the darkness, all crisply enunciated consonants and drawling vowels. "Did you really bring that thing with you?"

"Yes," Jules says defensively, and is suddenly reminded of fencing lessons with Fogg. Riposte, parry. Attack. "What is it about this time of the year?"

There is silence for a long moment, and Jules clings to his branch just in case Fogg snaps and decides to launch himself in Jules' direction and take them both out in a suicidal plunge. It's been that sort of week. "Rebecca," Fogg says finally, "is forever airing my business out in the open for all and sundry to see."

Jules fiddles with the ocular device for a minute, then slides it over his head and peers in Fogg's direction. He catches a glimpse of dark things moving in the corner of his vision, again - possibly if he tweaked this screw just a little -

The world as seen through the ocular device bursts into sudden, vivid colour, populated by dark shadows whisking past him or sitting very still, as though watching. "Oh," he says, startled.

Something in his voice alerts Fogg to the change and Jules can hear him shift closer. "What is it? Verne? Is something -"

"There!" Jules breathes. The ocular device is dizzying, but he if concentrates he can amalgamate the very separate images his eyes are now sending to his brain. Something dark and ragged is moving like a panther through the gardens below. "Down there, Fogg. By the roses -"

"What the devil," Fogg mutters, sounding irritated and a little worried. "I can't see anything -"

"I - I think it's the device that lets me see - Fogg, he's climbing!" Jules hisses. God, whatever it is - and it moves too fluidly to be human - swarms up the side of the house incredibly fast, and is vanished through a window in the space of time it takes Jules to blink.

Silence falls in the garden, as though the very plants are holding their breaths. Jules knows he is. "Rebecca," he says, "We must warn Rebecca -"

The silence is shattered by a piercing scream, and then Rebecca is bellowing, "He's dead! Harker's dead! Phileas!" Through the device, Jules can see the dark figure, the assassin, sprinting out of the study and onto the balcony, Rebecca directly behind it, but it leaps off the balcony and she stands confused. She can't quite see it, Jules realizes. We all need ocular devices. Fogg is swearing now, peering into the darkness in what Jules now knows is a useless attempt to see the assassin. It is going to be up to him.

The thing is moving through the garden now, snapping twigs and broken flowers in its wake, heading for the garden wall. In the sudden glow of fireworks going off - Rebecca signalling Passepartout - Jules can see it leap up, up, up, straight onto the top of the wall. Fogg swears again, startled. "I can almost see it," he begins, then shouts, "No, Verne, don't!"

Jules is already balancing precariously on the top of the wall. The figure stares at him with terrible, glowing red eyes. Its mouth opens to reveal lines of blackened sharp teeth, and with a voice like gravel crushing underfoot, intones, "Not a bad show, chaps; better luck next time. Cheerio," and it springs from the wall. Jules is already moving though, and although he can hear Fogg scrambling behind him, he knows that only one of them is going to make it in time. With one last, desperate lunge, Jules snags the creature's heel and falls with it over the edge of the wall. He can hear Fogg shouting behind him, but Jules is busy thinking that perhaps this wasn't his smartest idea ever. He's tipping upside down, watching the ground hurtle toward him in normal darkness and amazing technicolor. The ocular device, a captive of gravity just as Jules is, slips off his head, bounces off of the assassin, and hits the dirt just as he and the assassin - don't.

***

This is the situation, as witnessed by Phileas:

The man they came all the way to London to protect has been killed dead right under Rebecca's nose by a partially invisible assassin sporting a vaguely Manchesterian accent and the ability to leap over tall buildings in a single bound. Jules Verne is completely daft, and has launched himself - invention and all - after said invisible assassin. Finally, Phileas is currently draped over a garden wall looking at the space the assassin and Verne used to occupy, but now somehow do not.

"Verne!" shouts Phileas, over Mrs. Harker's wails and the low hum of the approaching Aurora. He doesn't receive an answer, but spies Verne's device lying forlornly in unkempt grass at the base of the wall. It isn't a terrible distance to the ground from the top of the wall and time is of the essence, so Phileas quickly maneuvers himself on the wall until he can simply drop to the ground and prays he doesn't roll an ankle.

He makes it down well enough, and the ocular device appears unharmed. Verne and the assassin haven't suddenly reappeared again, and an invisible man who leaps over garden walls could be anywhere by now. As he picks up the device, he absent-mindedly considers the sense of disblief he feels at having watched something like this happen. The image - a man falling out of his reach - is all too familiar. This - he cannot allow this to happen.

One of the gears in the device makes a clicking sound, and another, and another. The thing is an unfamiliar weight in his hands, and he has no idea how he's supposed to wear it. He throws it on the best he can and his vision explodes into vibrant reds and blues and greens, gold light dancing in the corners of his eyes. Now what is he supposed to bloody well do? The assassin nor Verne are anywhere in sight, and all the lights are making him feel a little dizzy.

And yet - there. A swirling miasma that's just a little darker than the surrounding colours, right about where he last saw Verne and the - the thing. Without the aid of the ocular device it's just a patch of normal air above normal, scraggly grass, but Phileas closes the eye that's seeing the normal world and takes a step forward. And another. He should be waiting for backup, really, but it seems to him that the doorway - if it is indeed a doorway - is already dwindling. One more step, and he's right up next to it. He hears Rebecca's scream of "Phileas!" from the top of the garden wall as he lifts his foot and pushes into the darkness.

***

Jules is sort of confused, and a little worried, but this is far from the first time he's been captured or kidnapped or, all right, done something stupid like leaping after dangerous subjects.

He's pretty sure he's lying on the ground, or maybe on some sort of ceiling, but then the terrible visage of the assassin looms over him, looking disgusted. Definitely the ground then.

"Well, this is unusual," the assassin remarks.

Jules tries to concentrate, but he feels a bit swirly; all the colour is making him nauseous, now that it's no longer confined to the ocular device and has instead expanded to become the whole world.

Somewhere to his left is a bump, a thump, and then frenzied swearing in Fogg's distinctively cultured tones. It's rather reassuring, and Jules relaxes minutely. There will be some violence and terror, and then they will go home to the Aurora. That's the way these things always turn out, although he grows a bit worried again when the swearing dies out and the assassin strolls out of his line of sight.

***

When Phileas wakes up, Verne is dabbing ineffectually at Phileas' upper lip. "You must have gotten a nosebleed," Verne says defensively, holding up the handkerchief he's clutching as proof.

Phileas is 92% certain that stepping through the portal has somehow liquefied his brain, and he's vaguely concerned that any unnecessary movements on his part will send it dribbling out of his ears. Speaking of his ears, they're roaring, and when he puts up his hand he feels blood dripping sluggishly out of them. The world around him is violently colourful, so he closes his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. "Verne?" he attempts, and struggles upright. "Where the hell are we?"

"I think," says Verne, looking curiously at the walls around them, "we've landed in another dimension. And apparently been thrown into a pit."

"Really," Phileas growls back. He opens his eyes again, tentatively, and decides that he probably won't pass out. "Any guesses as to which dimension?"

"Honestly?" Verne hesitates and fiddles with his bootlace. "It looks sort of like hell, to me."

Phileas snorts and bites back a scathing comment about the absence of his father, thus proving Verne's hell-theory incorrect. Instead, he says, "Wonderful. Think twice about grabbing for the heels of hell spawn next time, hmm?" His tone seems to get the intended message across - i.e. Verne is an idiot and this whole situation is completely his fault - and the other man visibly deflates. Vernes' features are fuzzy, and Phileas isn't sure whether to credit this to being in the wrong dimension, or to his own apparent head injury. He supposes it probably doesn't matter.

Phileas stares at Verne, and not just because the ocular device seems to be missing and a mischevious blue colour is trying to slip into Verne's hair. Verne is watching the space two feet left of Phileas' head, practically radiating sheepishness, but Phileas is also beginning to suspect that Verne expects Phileas to do something about their current situation, which at the moment feels fairly dire.

"This is a terrible day," moans Phileas. He finds himself listing sideways. His pounding head protests. "I shouldn't even bother getting out of bed this time of year."

Verne's expression shifts from mild concern to the cold, calculating curiosity he usually associates with Rebecca. "Um," says Verne, "what is it about this time of year, exactly?"

Phileas glares at him and hates the universe. "Are you daft, Verne?"

"It's just-"

"Stop talking."

"Is it...was this the time of year when Erasmus..."

"Shut up, Verne."

Verne, thank God, apparently decides that cleaning Phileas' brain off the floor from where it's surely started to dribble out of his ears is too much work and subsides. Phileas thinks that if his vision ever goes back to normal and they find their way out of fire and brimstone and too much colour somehow, he is going to play cards until his hands fall off, and then sleep until spring. There may also be scotch.

Something not unlike footsteps approach the hole they're being held in, and a dark figure with faintly glowing eyes peers down at them from the mouth of the pit. "Hello," it says, revealing several rows of very shiny teeth. Phileas responds in kind, and then demands to be told what's going on. "Chips is going on," says the thing, and its voice is low and gravelly; Phileas recognizes it as the assassin he followed over Harker's garden wall.

"Chips?"

"For poker."

The assassin plays with a vibrantly green bug that is crawling along the edge of the pit, ushering it closer to them and then restlessly flipping it back and forth between his fingers. It looks down at them and looks so incredibly pleased with itself that Phileas finds his tired mind starting to understand what in hell it's talking about. Oh, no.

Phileas curses under his breath. He wants to gamble, not be gambled.

Verne looks mildly horrified at the prospect, and the assassin licks its lips. "Fogg," hisses Verne, "I think-"

And then the familiar aspects of the assassin's appearance slot into place.

"Good God," says Phileas, "It's Spring-Heeled Jack."

***

"The one and only," says Spring-Heeled Jack, boogieman and terror of London, apparently brought to life and holding Jules and Fogg captive in a cell. Jules is pretty sure he's sputtering, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"You aren't Spring-Heeled Jack," he finally manages to spit out. "There's no such thing as Spring-Heeled Jack."

Jack bristles and Fogg says, "There's no such thing as vampires, either, I imagine." He turns to the assassin. "Who hired you to kill Mr. Harker?" Jack chuckles at them, and then the ground is shifting and they've just broken about fifty laws of physics because now they're in the corner of a large room. A table sits in the middle, surrounded by creatures so ghastly an extremely impractical part of Jules wants to scribble down descriptions to use for books later. Deep reds and purples swirl ominously around them.

Jack motions to Jules and Fogg, and the table erupts in general acceptance. Jules supposes high volume during the game should be expected.

"Demonic poker, mmm?" Phileas says, loudly. Before Jules realizes what's going on, Phileas is talking about wagers and freedom and an eternity of enslavement, and Jules cannot even begin to describe how bad of an idea this is, but he tries. Neither Phileas nor Spring-Heeled Jack care to listen, but there's a lot of laughing from the table matched with cool determination emanating from Fogg' person. Before the idea has even been properly discussed, Fogg is herded to the table and the game begins.

Jules has never been very clear on the rules of gambling or poker, and it quickly becomes apparent that adding large and loud demonic beings into the mix does not improve matters. He is vaguely aware of Fogg sitting small and straight-backed at the table, still possessing admirable amounts of self-control. Jules is fairly certain that gambling is not the best way out of their situation, especially when the the person doing the gambling has probably suffered some sort of head wound and may be concussed. He wonders what the odds are. He probably doesn't want to know.

He's unsure of how much time goes by, but he's ready to drop with exhaustion when Fogg suddenly flings his cards down on the table and actually allows a victorious smile to pass fleetingly across his face. "We've won," he tells Jules. "Let's be off."

The table immediately erupts into chaos, as monstrous beings begin to fling drinks, cards and chairs and howl in anger. Jules leaps out of his uncomfortable chair and sprints toward Fogg, who grabs his wrist and tugs him urgently toward the portal.

We're not going to make it, Jules thinks desperately, We're not going to make it -

They're through the portal.

"HA!" Fogg crows, and drops onto the grass. The world is delightfully drab and grey, and the sudden silence is very soothing. They're right outside the Harker's garden wall.

"Huzzah," Jules cheers weakly, and flops down beside Fogg. They both stare up at the moon in the chilly grass for a few moments, simply breathing, until there's a shout from behind them and Rebecca comes racing toward them.

"God in Heaven," she says. "What happened to you two? You're all ashy, and Phil, you're bleeding!"

"A great many things have happened," says Phileas. "And now, if you don't mind, I intend to retire to bed. Possibly after a great deal of alcohol."

Verne nods fervently beside him, his face worryingly pale in the moonlight. "I think alcohol is an excellent idea."

"And let us never speak of this again," Fogg declares.

They don't.

 

 

 


End file.
